Carpathian Lullaby
by Kylenne
Summary: Once a year, a special pilgrimage is made to a sacred place of remembrance, but this time the pilgrim finds he is not alone. AU, Alucard/Isaac.


There was something extremely odd about the sight of a pristine black Mercedes S-Class easing down a twisting dirt road in the middle of the rural Romanian countryside. It seemed incredibly out of place, this symbol of wealth and modern technology passing small, scattered cottages and fields that were virtually unchanged for hundreds of years. Fitting, perhaps, that the man behind the wheel of this car was as much a paradox, as much an anachronism.

It was a chilly spring evening, entirely moonless; the sky was absolutely pitch black, with only the faintest starlight twinkling here and there. No lights here, either, not this deep in the middle of nowhere, beyond even the most backwater of villages. The accouterments of civilization were long since left behind. Not even the high beams of the Mercedes seemed to be able to completely penetrate that oppressive darkness. But then, this particular night of the year always seemed a bit darker, always seemed that much colder than others.

Fortunately, the driver's exceptional vision helped. He carefully eased the car down to the end of the forgotten dirt road, stopping it at the edge of a dense thicket. And then there was another oddity, this thoroughly modern-looking, fashionable European gentleman in a double-breasted suit, hair slicked back into a long, neat ponytail, emerging from his luxury car to carefully peel back branches and slip between them as though he were some common woodsman. His fine, Italian-made loafers were absolutely silent as he traversed effortlessly through trees and brush, leaving no sign of his passage; it was as though he were a ghost through the wood. It likely would have been rather impossible for any ordinary person to handle this treacherous terrain, but this gentleman pilgrim, this walking paradox, was far from ordinary.

After approximately a mile or so, he reached a small clearing, beyond a steep incline. When he emerged, it had been much like he left it, a beautiful oasis filled with flowers of uncountable species. A secret, hidden garden, this, a place of timeless beauty that had grown over the countless centuries, tended by this gentleman's careful hand. It was with great and powerful reverence that he slipped lithe and graceful feet out of the expensive loafers and the fine woolen socks, and let the green grass spread beneath his toes.

This place had not always been so tranquil, had not always been so beautiful. It was once a place of baseless fear and superstition, a place of death and sorrow. But, with the first flower planted, it would never be touched by death again; every plant was as he left it, from the very first so long ago, to the last.

With a heavy heart, he walked slowly to the center of the garden, a solitary acacia tree swaying gently in the night breeze. He smiled faintly, remembering the Latin name, _Acacia melanoxylon_. A symbol of longevity and immortality (this, from the teachings of alchemy), with great medicinal properties. And a fitting tribute to the woman who meant everything to him, to the woman who meant everything to so many. It was there before the roots of this great tree that he knelt before the plaque. The simple words inscribed upon it, also in Latin:

_Lisebeta Farenheights Ţepeş_

_Beloved Wife, Mother, and Teacher_

_Gone But Never Forgotten_

"Mother, it's me. Your Adrian. I am here," he whispered quietly, his heart in his throat.

Reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, Adrian retrieved the lilies, always her favorite, and placed them before the plaque. Brushing the burnished bronze with his fingertips, he began to hum softly, the lullaby she'd always sang him as a child. It comforted him still, and perhaps there was a part of him that believed this link between them still remained and gave her comfort also.

The moments passed in stillness after that, the dhampir in reverent, silent communion. However, there was a slight change in the air to his sharp, preternatural senses. He was not alone anymore, and was being watched. It had not been the first time that he sensed another presence in this sacred place, but it had never intruded upon him before, so he left it be. Perhaps it was his father, perhaps not; it did not matter to Adrian, so long as it was respectful. And it always had been.

This time, however, he glanced a familiar shadow out of the corner of his eye, sitting--crouching, really--in a nearby tree. Curiously, he slowly turned, and saw--could it have really been--?

"Isaac?" It had been the most startled his tone had been in centuries.

A ghost from his long and storied past, one he did not think he would ever see again. How long had it been since Adrian had seen him? It seemed another lifetime ago. But there he was, nonetheless, sitting barefoot in the tree, in the edgy attire of the black-clad young men in the rock video films of the modern age. His violet eyes were as startled as Adrian's own, it seemed.

"Oh fark, I didn't mean to--I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be here but I--Christwaffles I normally wait till you're gone but--oh, I didn't mean to swear, not here, please forgive me! I just wanted to. Well." Isaac was stammering in that half-Piedmontese of his, just as Adrian remembered he always did when he was a bundle of nerves, fidgeting with his red braid and sort of clinging to the tree limb.

"Isaac," Adrian began softly, suppressing the chuckle that was rising within him, "please come down from there."

"I'm not really sure how to? My legs are kind of stiffcakes, ho boy you know how there's never any leg room on those cheapo budget-wish-we-were-Lufthansa-it'd-be-a-step-up airlines, it's practically like flying stuffed in a toaster from Munich to Cluj-Napoca, huzzah for coach and by huzzah! I mean die in a fire. _In sintesti_: ow my legs I don't know if they work anymore." The expression was sheepish, perhaps embarrassed. Adrian suddenly wanted very much to laugh, but managed not to.

"You're a clever man. You managed to get up there, didn't you?"

"Well. I suppose I could try--ow! Oh stop that you rank leafy so-and-so, don't think I haven't got my eye on you--!"

After a tentative, preliminary reach with his foot, Isaac leapt down from the tree, the picture of feline grace. It was then that Adrian could see he was holding a small bundle in his arms. Perhaps that was the reason he was so worried about getting down. There was fear in his eyes, then; Adrian could feel the trepidation wafting off him as much as the faint, floral cologne he wore. And then Isaac spoke again, his eyes wide, trembling a bit like the small youth Adrian remembered from so long ago: "If you want me to leave, I will. I have no business being here."

Adrian shook his head, and instead reached out his arm to beckon him forward, to the shrine. "You loved her. As much as anyone did. You have every right to be here."

"But, this is your place, I don't want to intrude--"

"This is _her_ place. And she loved you. She would want you here. _I_ want you here."

Isaac's lower lip wibbled a bit, and he walked forward to join Adrian, kneeling beside him, and like he had so many times, the dhampir allowed his Knight to snuggle against him, a red head resting on his shoulder. With that gesture, with the simple arm wrapped about him, it was as though the long and painful years of separation had vanished. Adrian smiled, at that, his heavy heart suddenly lighter than it had been in ages.

"I brought her some chocolates," Isaac said quietly, offering him the small package. "It's not much, but I hope she likes them?"

"I'm sure she'll love them." Adrian kissed him upon the brow, and then placed the chocolates next to the lilies.

They sat there in silence, then, not quite knowing what else to say. Words, Adrian often found, were rarely as necessary as people commonly believed. Sometimes mere presence was enough, the warmth of a lost lover's touch and a beloved mother's memory enough to sustain one through a long night. And so it was that Adrian Ţepeş found himself with his Knight in his arms once again, sitting silently for hours amidst the flowers and the night breeze, as though it was his way of letting his mother know that he was alright, that her boys were alright.

Together they watched the sunrise, and perhaps Adrian himself began to believe it was so.


End file.
